


My Lover, My Liar

by F1DEL1US



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst, Career Ending Injury, M/M, Pining, Stickhandling 101, Will have a happy-ish ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2018-11-08 14:00:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11083053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/F1DEL1US/pseuds/F1DEL1US
Summary: The problem with sharing your life with someone, no matter how little time that might be for, is that they get under you skin, into your memories, without you ever even realizing it. And when that person is abruptly ripped away from you, it feels like you are being torn to shreds.





	1. So tell me where I went wrong

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by ["Eyes Closed"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9LhN6E01Mkc) by Halsey, and my own personal obesession with angst. Thanks, M, for dealing with my vague plot ideas and telling me it sounds like a story anyway. Thanks to Erin for naming it, even if this is not what she signed up for when she offered to name one of my fics.

_Would've gave it all for you, cared for you_

_So tell me where I went wrong_

_Would've gave it all for you, cared for you_

_(My lover, my liar)_

 

_\-----_

 

Connor’s used to hurt. He’s a hockey player in the National Hockey League where you get a serving of bruises for breakfast, lunch and dinner. So yeah, he’s used to it. And not just the physical kind either. He has been touted as the Next Great One (he _hates_ the name) since he was fifteen. And when you’re a kid showing up players who are older than you, and were, in their own right, great players until _you_ came along...well, they tend to not take the idea very well.

 

But this is different. It’s primal. It’s constant. And it’s all-encompassing.

 

Because all his life, no matter how the rest of the pieces fell, he’s always had hockey. And as long as he had that, everything else would work out. It always did.

 

For the first time, something feels _bigger_ than hockey, and that scares the shit out him.

 

_It feels like a thunderstorm when it happens. Like he is standing in freezing rain as ice cold shards pierce his skin. Makes him want to double over in pain, because at a certain point one cannot tell where the mental pain ends and the physical one begins._

 

_“I hate this,” Dylan whispers bitterly, and he hears what he isn’t saying._

 

**_I hate you._ **

 

\-----

 

The problem with sharing your life with someone, no matter how little time that might be for, is that they get under you skin, into your memories, without you ever even realizing it. And when that person is abruptly ripped away from you, it feels like you are being torn to shreds.

 

 _Everything_ reminds him of Dylan. A stupid joke. A chirp. A really awesome hockey play.

 

Dylan was a part of his life for over two years, a part of his _heart_ for who knows how long during that time. They say boys in juniors have no concept of personal space, and maybe that’s true. Maybe that’s why they were _them_ before they had ever even made a conscious decision to be so.

 

Their relationship had been as easy as breathing. The only thing that ever came as easily to him was hockey. And it hurts just as much when loses it, like he imagines it would hurt if he were ever to, god forbid, lose hockey.

 

_“Talk to me, Dyls,” he hears himself begging, desperation rife in his tone, but he can’t bring himself to care._

 

_But all he hears is breathing on the other end, and a long, painful silence._

 

_And eventually, a click._

 

\-----

 

His teammates notice that something isn’t right. Of course they do. He might not have been around them for longer than a few months, but when you’re communicating without speaking every day on the ice, it fast tracks the ‘getting to know each other’ part of the friendship.

 

They try to help. And in hockey player language, that means trying for five awkward minutes to make him talk about what’s wrong, and when that fails, taking him to a bar and getting him drunk and trying to _be the best wingmen this side of the country_.

 

He’s too drunk, too hurt, too... _something_ to remember why this is a bad idea.

 

So he takes... _someone_...back to the hotel. His Canadian guilt will kick into gear the next day, but right now, the fact that he doesn’t even know or care about the name of the guy he’s hooking up with doesn’t faze him much.

 

It feels good for a few minutes, losing himself in the warmth of someone else. But it isn’t too long before it starts feeling _off_. He’s just slightly too short, a tad too skinny, his hands don’t rest where they are supposed to, and he doesn’t _fit_ with him the way that he is meant to...and everything is just a _little_ _too wrong._

 

_“Kiss me,” he hears Dylan whisper, and if it weren’t for the look in his eyes, a little vulnerable, a little defiant, Connor would be sure he had misheard him._

 

_His eyes flick to Dylan’s lips for just a second before they’re moving towards each other, and Connor’s falling, falling, falling._

 

_\-----_

 

They play Arizona at home, one of their last games of the season, and _nothing_ works as it is supposed to. He is way too aware of who’s _not_ on the bench for the Coyotes, and the what-if’s and maybe’s are like a thousand pinpricks under his skin.

 

He can’t seem to find the tape of his wingers, let alone the back of the net. It is arguably one of his worst performances since he started playing professional hockey, and his coach chews him out, rightfully so.

 

“I don’t know what’s wrong, son, but when you’re on the ice, you leave everything behind,” is the last thing he says before he dismisses him.

 

And once upon a time, Connor would have agreed wholeheartedly. He still does. But fuck if he knows how to separate the love of his life and _the love of his life_.

 

_“I love you,” Dylan says, tracing the shape of Connor’s face with his fingertips as they lie in bed._

 

_Connor blinks. The words are on the tip of his tongue, instinctive, but he can’t quite get himself to say them. But before he can say something, anything, Dylan’s pulling him closer, wrapping his lips in a kiss so sweet it brings tears to his eyes._

 

“I love you,” he whispers into the darkness, a tear slipping past his eyes.

 

\-----

 

_Would've traded all for you, there for you_

_So tell me how to move on_

_Would've traded all for you, cared for you_

_(My lover, my liar)_

 


	2. You know the truth hurts, but secrets kill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the end, Connor should have seen this coming. He was a fool to ever believe that he had any control over his own actions, any remote choice, when it comes to Dylan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well...I at least made you wait for way less time than Dylan did to Connor? :D
> 
> Thanks, M, for telling me this braindump was worth dumping into ao3.

_ 'Cause you know the truth hurts _

_ But secrets kill _

_ Can't help thinkin' that I love it still _

_ Still here, there must be something real _

 

\-----

 

Whoever said pain lessens over time is a lying liar. 

 

**_Can we talk?_ **

 

Connor stares at the message for the hundredth time. At first, he had thought he was hallucinating. It seemed a bit more realistic than hearing from Dylan for the first time in two years. Two long years where Connor had swept the NHL by storm, and fucked his way through every city. Not that it had helped. Nothing ever did. 

 

And like the past ninety-nine times, he turned the screen off and threw the phone away. 

 

God bless Hallsy for telling him to turn the read receipts the fuck off during his first week here. 

 

\-----

 

~~**_Why now..._ ** ~~

 

\-----

 

~~**_Fuck you_ ** ~~

 

_ \----- _

 

~~**_I hate you..._ ** ~~

 

_ \----- _

 

~~**_No_ ** ~~

 

_ \----- _

 

In the end, Connor should have seen this coming. He was a fool to ever believe that he had any control over his own actions, any remote choice, when it comes to Dylan. 

 

**_Sure_ **

 

_ \----- _

 

_ 'Cause you know the good die young _

_ But so did this _

_ And so it must be better than I think it is _

_ Gimme those eyes, it's easy to forgive _

 

_ \----- _

 

They decide to meet during the summer. Connor’s home from another playoff race that ended too soon, a never ending stream of what-ifs and should haves his only companion, and Dylan’s...well, Dylan’s doing whatever he does these days. He thinks it should hurt a little less, to not have him entertwined with every aspect of his life, after two years. 

 

_ What ifs and Should have beens.  _

 

“Hey,” Dylan says as he walks to the table, pulling Connor out of his thoughts. It takes every ounce of Connor’s will power not to stare at Dylan’s knee. They had decided to meet at a Tim’s because they are nothing if not a cliche and Connor’s thankful for the cup of cold coffee in his hand because it gives him something to focus on now. 

 

“Hi,” he manages to get out on the third try. Because of course he reverts back to his sixteen year old tongue-tied self in front of Dylan, _ of course he does _ . 

 

“How are you?” Dylan asks because...well, he supposes that’s how they are now. Chit chat. Small talk. Connor assumes screaming at him about cutting him out of his life as a conversation starter isn’t appropriate. 

 

“I’m...I’m okay. What about you? How is...” he trails off. 

 

And it twists something in his heart to realize that the more things change, the more they stay the same because Dylan finishes his unasked question. 

 

“My knee? Yeah, it’s fine. There are good days and bad days and everything in between,” he answers with a small smile, and it’s too fucking much for him. 

 

He gets up abruptly and says, “Let’s go.”

 

“What? Where?” Dylan asks, confused. 

 

“I don’t know. Somewhere not here. Somewhere quiet. I can’t do this here,” Connor answers in a rush and walks out. If Dylan doesn’t follow him, that’s  _ his  _ problem. 

 

\-----

 

They end up walking over to a dog park and finding a quiet corner with a bench. It’s the middle of the afternoon on a weekday so the park is blissfully empty. 

 

“It’s a nice...” Dylan starts and Connor has had quite enough. 

 

“Why did you message me?” he asks, and he hopes it doesn’t come out like the accusation it was meant to be. “Why now?”

 

“Because I was ready,” comes the answer, and he supposes he should at least be happy for Dylan’s honesty. “Because I feel like I am more now than just the summation of my failures.”

 

Connor has to bite his tongue to stop the protests from spilling out. 

 

“When it happened...god, Connor. I don’t have to tell you what hockey meant to me. To  _ us _ . I couldn’t think about you without thinking of what I lost too, and what  _ you _ still had. I resented you. And I resented  _ myself _ for feeling that way. There were days when I felt like I was less than nothing. Days where I...I didn’t think I could ever move on. Live. I didn’t... _ couldn’t _ have you be a part of that. Be a part of something else I ruined, someone else I failed.”

 

Dylan’s voice cracks and he has to stop to collect himself, and Connor has to look away lest he give up and give  _ in _ . It would be  _ so _ easy to forgive. To forget. 

 

But then what?

 

“It took a lot of therapy, both physical and mental, to get where I am today,” Dylan goes on, oblivious to Connor’s inner torment. “And I wanted...I owed you an explanation, more than anyone else in my life. So I guess...yeah. That’s why I reached out.”

 

Connor doesn’t reply because what could he  _ possibly _ say to that. Call Dylan stupid for thinking that way? Yell at him for doubting Connor would ever think of him as a failure? 

 

“Say...say something,” Dylan says when Connor stays silent for too long. 

 

And so he settles on the truth. 

 

“You know I debated quitting for the longest time? At least through all of the first year,” he hears Dylan gasp quietly but continues on. “But...but every time I did, I felt like I couldn’t  _ breathe _ . Hockey is as much a part of me as you once were, and it was  _ hell _ to lose you and I couldn’t...” he pauses to gulp in air because just the thought of it is enough to set his heart racing. “So yeah...maybe I didn’t lose hockey, but I lost  _ you _ and it was the exact  _ same _ thing.”

 

“I am sorry,” Dylan says after a silence that feels like it lasted years and yet, not quite long enough. 

 

Connor snorts because he can be a mean little shit when he wants to be, it’s just that he never  _ wanted _ to be around Dylan. 

 

“So am I.”

 

If Dylan reacts to that, he doesn’t see it because he’s using all his willpower to resist hugging or punching him. Connor’s not quite sure which emotion’s winning out. 

 

“Davo...” and at this, Connor  _ does _ react because this is the first time he heard Dylan call him that in the past two years and he’s not quite sure how to reconcile it with all the times he had heard it before. It was a nickname that Dylan had given him out of love. And well...

 

“I didn’t...I  _ don’t _ ,” Dylan pushes through, “want you to think I wanted to meet now because I expect something from you. This isn’t even really a way for me to clear my own conscience because I am not sure I deserve to do that. But I know... _ knew _ you and could imagine how much it would be tearing you apart to not know why. I wanted  _ you _ to have some closure.”

 

Connor doesn’t say anything because he’s not quite sure what Dylan’s left for him to say. 

 

Dylan places a hand on his shoulder and squeezes before getting up. 

 

“It was good to see you,” he says before walking away. 

 

\-----

 

And that...is really that. 

 

They don’t speak again during the offseason, and Connor goes on with his life, the way he did for the past two years, the way he had to  _ learn _ to and he finds that he was wrong. It hadn’t felt that way before he met Dylan, but he  _ did _ move on. It might have been in insignificant ways, and it might have been more a survival instinct than any real effort on his part, but he did adapt. He figured out a way to live without Dylan in his life, and maybe that, more than anything, is what prompts him to do what he does next. 

 

He scrolls through his messages until he finds it. The tentative ‘ _ sure’ _ he had sent all those months ago. 

 

And this time, his hands don’t shake when he types and presses enter. 

 

**_Hey_ **

 

\-----

 

_ And so it must be better than I think it is _

_ Gimme those eyes, it's easy to forgive _

_ I hope, hopeless _

_ (Oh-ooh) Changes over time _

_ (Oh-ooh) I hope hopeless _

_ (Oh-ooh) Changes over time _

_ (Oh-ooh) I hope hopeless _

_ (Oh-oh-oh-oh) Changes over time _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments will be quite appreciated <3

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews make writing hurt less. I realize you might not want me to hurt less after this, but think about part 2. ;)


End file.
